


The Worst Spies You've Ever Met

by ToasterBonanza



Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [8]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Accidentally Uncovering War Crimes, Complicated Relationships the Self and Others, Gen, Hybrids, Inspired by Music, Letters Back Home, Musicians, Post-Canon, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza
Summary: Story 8 in "Piper at the Gates of Dawn"When choosing between morality and instinct, someone did not choose wisely. Luckily, that doesn't matter for the moment. Without warning, our four musicians are seemingly released and told there is just one more person they need to meet, this "Head Investigator" they kept hearing back.The Head Investigator makes it plain: according to everyone--including five very large governments--one of them is a spy. Too much circumstantial evidence. The hard part is that no one can work out which of them is the spy and which ones were suckered into the plan. The Head Investigator, however, has a different idea: None of them are spies, and even if they were, they would be quite possibly the worst spies anyone has ever met.
Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072472
Kudos: 2





	1. The Answer

Thick, viscous warmth. Like a heavy tapestry enveloping him. Like bathing in honey. Flesh joined and at once apart.

_Doh’Val, wake up, God Forgive Me, Doh’Val, Doh’Val…._

He luxuriated in a fur-lined coffin while a doctor checked his pupils.

A most glorious, wonderful sickness.

_Doh’Val, please, come back…._

Vudic’s blue eyes melting down his stricken face, creating the clear open sky.

Every sound was far away. Gentle undulations through the endless ocean of hot velvet carried him into eternity.

_Doh’Val, Doh’Val..._

Doh'Val awoke to bright lights, cold air, and the most vicious headache he could ever remember. Even his old scar hurt like lightning had struck him a second time. Squinting, he shivered and scooted his weary body further under the thin sheets. The only thing to do was sleep all of this off and think about it in the morning.

"Ah, our patient awakes," sang a familiar voice. The doctor who performed his initial exam when he came aboard—right. Dr. Mowinckel was her name. Doh’Val was Minjaral's advocate. The Space Station Maryam. But he was still weary. Minjaral was well-liked on the space station. He would be fine. "How do you feel?"

"Like I died," he croaked. Even breathing felt a chore. He kept his eyes closed. Doctor would be gone soon. He hoped.

"Understandable. You almost did."

A month of nonstop brawling and feasting would do that to even the best. Although something else had happened. His brain was still full of fur.... A beep, and the air instantly heated to a normal temperature. Hands helped him, but merely sitting up hurt everything. He blinked the sleep from his eyes to see some part of the space station's sickbay surrounding him. A wedge had been placed behind his back to stop him from lying back down. Equipment around him. Or something. Why couldn't he just go back to sleep?

Seeming out of thin air appeared a second doctor. Vulcan. She was doing—whatever it is doctors do. "You vitals have returned to baseline since the initial exam. You are healthy." She turned her attention to the tablet in her hand.

"How did I get here?"

"After suffering a sub-lethal fever for five days, you lost the ability to walk. Emergency medical personnel brought you and placed you in a coma to reverse all damage. As expected, you made a full recovery in 20 hours."

"Why did I have a fever?"

She looked up, creasing her brow. "Pon Farr." Somehow, that was supposed to mean something. When he didn't respond right away, she leaned close. "Do you remember the last five days?" she asked gravely.

"What? Yes, of course I do." Vaguely.

Her concern was unsettling. "What you tell me remains in my confidence. Were you coerced in any way?"

"No, not at all. I, please. Thank you, but I am fine." Aside from hurting all over, even on his cheeks. He remembered enough to know that he and Vudic had finally said some things that needed saying, and what transpired was the closest Doh’Val had ever come to a religious experience.

She pulled away, returning back to her tablet. "I was informed that your other injuries are normal for your culture and discouraged from treating all but the most severe."

Looking down, he understood the pain. Giddiness came over as he examined the healing bites and bruises and scratches and whatnot, each wound bringing back another heady memory. All of it had been real.

"You may see him now."

Minjaral and Krax were at his side out of nowhere. He couldn't quite read Minjaral's face, but he felt the same way as he with his father, the swirl of guilt and reassurance. Try as he might, he could only follow parts of what the two were telling him. They were still....quarantined? Something. No changes. Then they said something about Vudic. "Wait." Doh'Val coughed. "Wait, where is he?"

The Vulcan doctor answered. "Contained. He is under observation."

"Well, I want to see him." He pulled off the sheets to see numerous more injuries on his legs and the very unflattering patient's gown.

The doctor didn't look up. "That is ill-advised."

What did she think was going to happen, they'd tear each other to pieces? He swung his legs around to reach the floor, but even putting some weight on his legs put deep pangs on his knees. Hissing and groaning, he managed to straighten. Gods, the pain. That was what she meant.

Both Minjaral and Krax walked him through the sickbay to a triage area with some people who looked like the interrogators, including one who kept watching him. Right, the quarantine. Someone explained that the head investigator found no reason to keep them longer. A few forms for all of them to sign, and they'd be free to go. Well that was very good but he still found no sign of Vudic.

And then he appeared. Vudic, beautiful Vudic, dressed in his own clothes with a healing green outline of a bite on his cheek. He was speaking with the doctor but something caught his attention, and he turned to meet Doh'Val's gaze. In a moment, they were face-to-face, Vudic seizing his pained shoulders. "Doh'Val!" came the shout that melted his heart.

He froze and slowly dropped his hands, the gush of emotion receding back into his sparkling blue eyes. For the first time since they arrived at the space station, finally, Vudic behaved like the man he knew. "I am pleased to see you in good health."

Doh'Val was still fuzzy. Somewhere in the interim, he dressed and groomed himself, they signed their forms, and the four were escorted to some part of the station. Every step brought another new ache, but Vudic came to his aide. He was lucky to know him; he hoped his friend felt the same way.

They were led to a strange and empty little hallway that looked crooked. A set of closed double doors were to their left. A single security person stood with them. They were told to wait. The aches were subsiding, and he realized he must have gotten something for the pain before he noticed. No time to waste. The moment was ripe for his next move. Squaring his shoulder, smoothing his beard and moustache, and putting on his most charming smile, he tapped Vudic's shoulder. "That was—" he faltered slightly, still giddy with the knowledge of what had passed between them. "I must say. Nothing compares."

Vudic nodded. "I must explain. What you saw of me." He glanced to the side for a moment as if he were ashamed. "The words I know in our shared language are not adequate. I harmed you. I regret this."

"This? This is nothing," he chuckled, grinning through the pain in his ribs. He leaned against the wall for support. "No need for apologies."

The characteristic brow-crease. "Are you certain?"

"Well—oof—well." He beckoned the other closer to whisper in a scheming tone, "You could give me your apology later when we are alone. Perhaps with another one of these." He touched one of the scabbed-over bites on his cheek. "Perhaps?" When breathing didn't hurt so much.

The crease only deepened. "Perhaps." What was he looking for, an engraved invitation?

Someone’s footfalls interrupted them. Doh’Val couldn’t recall if he’d met this person before. A very tall man with stern, angular features including strong cheekbones. Shiny dark gray hair almost as long as Minjaral’s and securely at the base of his neck. He wore a neutral and understated version of Krax’s clothes, from the cuffed, tapered brown trousers to the simple but well-tailored black vest, a slight puff to the white buttoned shirt serving as the only flourish. Krax greeted him with a grin. “Mr. Nikita! What brings you this way?” Must have happened when he was occupied.

“Work, and how kind of you to ask.” He carried a lovely tray for tea in both hands while the strap of a lap-sized case dangling from a single curled finger. He handed off the tray to the security person. The address was apt; this man moved with a deliberate and deep understanding of his body.

The man was taller than all of them and made Krax look almost childlike from the height difference. “Well,” he continued, preening with his toothy smile. “Since you are here and very well-liked, perhaps you could put in a good word for us with a certain head investigator?”

“Possibly.” He placed his hand on a console next to the doors, waiting a few moments before they slid open. “Do excuse me for a moment.”

None of this was holding Doh’Val’s interest. Turning back to Vudic, he resolved to make his intentions known. “When we are done here, I think I would like to see your home.” He must ask Minjaral’s permission, by honor, but why would his patriarch say no?

“I can arrange for you to stay as long as you wish.”

Doh’Val let his fingers trace an invisible line along Vudic’s shoulder to caress his cheek and ear. “But there is no need to rush home, is there? A visit to Earth, of course, but perhaps a stop somewhere more exciting—”

Vudic carefully, slowly took Doh’Val’s hand off him. Their fingers tangled for a moment. “Doh’Val, I am grateful for both the strength of your friendship and depth of your attention. What transpired between us was a matter of biology, and you—” his eyes fluttered “—met every demand of mine without exception. I will never forget what you did for me. But the need has ended. I am sated.”

Doh’Val felt hot but couldn’t stop grinning. “Well. I...you are welcome, I suppose.” A slightly disappointing revelation, however, knowing that somehow Vudic had left him wanting more when he had so thoroughly satiated the other’s appetite that the man was simply _done_. And here he was with no one to brag to.

Their new visitor called, “Gentlemen, if you please.” Damn, with still so much left unspoken. Their tryst had made him new, burning away the months of anguish in his heart. But what of the future?

A clean, soft gray room with a splash of primary colors on the table, the chairs, and the benches. The doors closed. The lights were lower here than in the hallway. The elaborate equipment on the tray rumbled with boiling water next to the tabletop translator. Four tablets were spread on the table, indicating where each of them should sit. Alas, he and Vudic were seated the furthest from each other with Krax and Minjaral between them.

Instead of sitting down, the visitor took a very long and very deep breath with a satisfying stretch that seemed to realign his body. He was not handsome but his inherent athleticism made him fascinating to watch. “You were provided with your signed release forms, I believe?”

Krax took a breath to speak only for Minjaral to cut him off. When did he become so commanding? “Who are you,” he said quietly, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

The visitor wore a half-smile, matching the other’s expression. “You already know.” He poured out tea for each of them.

Cautious but level. “You are the head investigator.”

The head investigator now gave them a true smile, but it held no warmth. “I knew you were the clever one. Senior Field Analyst Nikolai LeVanne, Special Head Investigator under the Data Consortium’s Interagency Department. Or, Nikita, to the people I like.”

“We were told that we are free, only for you to bring us here. What is this place and why have you brought us?” He added to the rest of them, “This is like an execution room.” That was extreme. Surely nothing like that would happen...right? Had he been unconscious for so long?

Mr. LeVanne pointed to the tablets before them. “You have a few more forms to sign first.”

In the past four months, Doh’Val had read and signed more legal forms than before in his entire life. Between recovering still from his strange ordeal and seeing numerous loanwords in the Klingon-language form, he felt another headache coming on. He’d rather just sign everything and be done with it. But Minjaral was still his patriarch; he must do as he says.

Minjaral kept his eyes on Mr. LeVanne, pushing away the tablet. “I will not sign until you explain why we are here.”

Unlike every other person in authority they encountered, Mr. LeVanne did not meet resistance with anger. “I can tell you that this room is safe and self-contained, even with its own environmental system. We call this room a skiff, and we bring people here to discuss things which cannot be spoken anywhere else. After you sign—”

“I made myself clear.” Minjaral was unconquerable, a fact Doh’Val should have learned before his life on Qo’noS disintegrated. It was also an aspect he deeply admired about his patriarch. He stood from his seat to lean menacingly on the table. “Explain why you have brought us here.”

Mr. LeVanne lost any hint of a smile. “Mr. Seu, these forms—”

“No. No more forms, no more walking in circles with your words.” He forcefully grabbed the tablets from the rest of them to toss back on the table. “Mr Head Investigator—”

“Mr. LeVanne will do—” “ _S_ _ir_ _!_ I have been held on your station for almost thirty days, and I _still_ do not understand what transgression I committed! Am I not deserving of the truth?”

Doh’Val cautiously looked to Vudic for some reassurance but found none. The impression he got is that unlike the other interrogation rooms, Mr. LeVanne could do absolutely anything to them and no one would know, let alone stop him. Instead, Mr. LeVanne took another long, deep breath. “I will tell you the truth and...I will not ask you to sign anything before I do.”

“Thank you—”

“Reserve your gratitude.” He pulled a silver case from his vest. “Until you take up the agreement I offered, you must not speak a word of what you learn beyond this room.” He pulled a finger-size white cylinder from the case and fit it at the end of a smooth, golden holder. “Not with each other, not to friends or family. Do not warn anyone. Do not alter your plans based on what you learn.” The holder came to his lips, and he brought some device to light the white end where an orange ember smoldered. “If you do not follow as I say, I cannot protect you and cannot control what may happen next.” He took a sip, closing his eyes as if the contents of the holder touched his soul. A trickle of smoke floated from his nostrils. It smelled like someone burning a field before sowing it with salt.

Vudic turned to Minjaral. “I believe it is wise that we leave and learn nothing—”

Minjaral snarled mercilessly. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

Instead of pursuing, Vudic looked back to Mr. LeVanne who now exhaled a cloud of smoke. He kept the holder held high, pointing the lit end to the ceiling and presumably positioned politely toward the vents. Mr. LeVanne continued in his low velvet voice, “I am presented with a conundrum.” He began to pace, the casual tone deeply unsettling. “All of my subordinates have concluded that one of you is part of a conspiracy to commit espionage, but no one can decide which of you is involved, who you are working for, and why you would do it. From the information you provided and what we have learned on our own, one could build a persuasive argument about any one of you, but not all four.” He took a sip from his holder. “However. I believe that the truth is simple: it’s none of you.” He shrugged, gesturing with the holder. “In fact, I doubt that together, the four of you could even conspire to order dinner. Undermining or overthrowing an interplanetary government would be too advanced.”

The moment Krax opened his mouth to protest, Minjaral nastily twisted his ear as punishment. His glare could cut stone; it was how a patriarch tended to his wards. “This investigation. What is it all about—yes, I am aware of the part where it is _large_ and _very important_ , but I do not understand who you are and just _what_ gives you the authority to treat us like prisoners after telling us that we are not!”

Mr. LeVanne had an elaborate way of pulling smoke from the holder, Doh’Val guessed, when hiding how he wanted to respond. Instead, he gave an even response. “Understandable. Federation business. We detailed the matter in your release forms, but I imagine your friend the Federation citizen could explain more.”

He meant Vudic. “I,” he began, glancing to Minjaral who allowed him to continue, “am not aware of the larger affairs of the Federation. They do not concern me.” To Mr. LeVanne’s perplexion, he switched to Standard and asked, “Sir, has the translator malfunctioned?”

Mr. LeVanne shook his head, now finding an even more elaborate way to smoke. “No.” An off-putting smile. “I am merely trying to imagine the kind of universe in which you inhabit.” Doh’Val felt anger behind that smile.

Tapping off a bit of ash into a compartment of his opened case, Mr. LeVanne clipped off the lit part and neatly set everything down on the table. “Allow me a moment, gentlemen. I shall retrieve a proper document with the information you desire.” He disappeared through the entrance, his heel just barely clearing the closing doors.

Once they were alone, Minjaral's laser-hot stare fell on Vudic. "The affairs of the Federation do not concern you?!" he spat. "This man appears claiming _authority_ from your government! You do not think it is your duty to know how it acts on your behalf?"

Vudic, thankfully, had returned to his habits and met the hostility with unwavering, unfeeling eye-contact. "The government on Homeworld acts on my behalf. The Federation—" The headache came back, stopping Doh'Val from following much of the conversation despite his best efforts. He caught something about choice and working together but quickly realized all the time spent with his father's family on Earth did nothing to give him a worldview which could understand the Federation. Looking on, painful nostalgia came to him; he thought about the first time Kujvak shared a meal with his family who took turns sizing him up in whatever way could cause Doh'Val the most embarrassment.

Krax was still rubbing the redness on his ear. He picked up each of the tablets, presumably to find one with something interesting. With a room so bare and the lights so low, Doh'Val felt it best to lay down and wait for some of the pains to pass.

His friends' voices were a comforting drone. He considered closing his eyes. Just for a little....

Krax's voice brought him to attention. Something was wrong. "Minjal. Minjal, stop." The other two hadn't noticed. "Minjaral, Vudic. Minjaral!" Now they noticed. "Stop talking." He set down the tablet, repulsed, and began rubbing his face in agitation. "We are in trouble."

Doh'Val picked up the tablet with curiosity. "How so? This Mr. L’Van told us we did nothing wrong.” A harder name to say than he had expected.

"Oh Profits and Lace!" he snarled, ripping the tablet from his hand and hopping to his feet. After keeping still since they entered, Krax's energy was unbound. A few false starts and then he finally spoke, "He knows, he knows everything! He knows—agh! He knows _me!_ ” Krax kept taking deep breaths and pacing furiously in random patterns around the room. “Listen to this: they want to grant me _asylum_ as a victim of ‘systematic oppression by one’s culture and government.’”

Minjaral watched him with a steely gaze. “That should not surprise you.”

“Oh?! Because of the medical exam?!” Krax huffed as he paced. “Would a medical exam also reveal that the Ferenginar Commerce Authority has been trying to seize my assets ever since I joined you three doofbeetles?! They have pictures! Pictures, Minjal!” He threw the tablet at the three of them; Minjaral dodged, and Vudic caught it deftly before setting it down. “All that talk of staying together, Minjal, and you told them everything! I did everything right unlike you three! I kept my word and I never lost my head! This is not my doing!”

“Krax, I told them nothing—”

“Why should I believe you! You gave them my music, so what else did you give them? I am just a writer, Minjal, and they are asking me to sign a document that says I am a smuggler! I have to tell them everyone I wrote for, and I don’t know those things!” Krax punched at Minjaral’s chest with his finger. “I never should have helped any of you!”

What else did Mr. LeVanne know? Krax paced all over the room, now with Minjaral standing and attempting to calm him. Meanwhile, Doh'Val found the tablet with his forms. He dreaded the knowledge.

Vudic had done the same. "Their knowledge of Captain Kagga's ship should be expected," he said reassuringly. The other two were too busy arguing. "And—"

"Vudic, the say I was...." Doh'Val could not finish. Details were scant but the forms described him as 'an asset to Imperial intelligence' just for a bit of fun with a ship's captain. The discoveries only grew worse. "Vudic, we were watched on Qo'noS."

Krax broke away from the fighting first, rushing over. "What? We were what?" he demanded.

This could not be right. "It says—Krax, stop grabbing!—it says. Yes, I see. It says the Imperial Vanguard handles spying for the Empire, and it says the Vanguard was spying on us. Not just us, but my family. And Vudic’s family." He read the same line over and over. Oh gods, the Vanguard know why he went into exile. "This must be a mistake. Spying is dishonorable and most dishonorable is spying on one's own people."

Vudic was now reading over his shoulder. "I see the name of your friend, Kujvak." A horrible epiphany: so overjoyed had he been for his close and handsome friend to visit, Doh'Val thought nothing of how often they were seeing each other or how much he asked after the other three; how Kujvak kept introducing him to new people who seemed equally curious about the four of them; how little by comparison he spoke of his own life….

"Doh'Val, there is more," said Vudic. How could this get any worse? He took his time before reading, and now three of them were perched over his shoulder: "'Arrival at the deep space station coincides with a transport which docked at the station to suppress a riot among the laborers transported. The signee was not listed on any ship's manifest as a passenger or crewmember. Last known whereabouts of the signee prior to the incident is on the transport's planet of origin, according to security retinal scans. The Investigation maintains that the retinal scan on this planet was procured and sold—'" he paused, "'to the Romulan Star Empire.' This is concerning." In between the words was an unmistakable picture of them, cloaked, fleeing the docking bay—of course. Vudic’s blue eyes gave them away….

All eyes fell on Minjaral. He kept his chin defiantly high. "We shall discuss with Mr. LeVanne when he returns."

Krax sneered, "I'm reading yours and you can't stop me."

The doors slid open. Mr. LeVanne. "I was delayed briefly." Whatever else he meant to say disappeared from his lips as he surveyed the room. "Ah. I see you are reading the forms I gave you. I suspect Mr. Seu has not read his." He strolled back to his end of the table, collecting his silver case. He re-lit the holder.

This time, Krax hissed Minjaral into silence. "How do you know these things?"

A small puff of smoke. "It is my trade to know these things, Mr. Rhoon-son. As for Mr. Seu. I strongly recommend you read your forms. I can allow you a moment to yourself while you read it and escort the other three into the hallway."

Minjaral had lost some of his fire. "I. I think." He looked at each of them. He had brought them to this terrifying place, he knew. Taking a deep breath, he offered a more diplomatic tone. "I would prefer that you tell us. All of us."

Mr. LeVanne had a similar talent as Vudic: the ability to communicate vivid emotion without a change in expression. He was incredulous, even wary. "You are certain."

"Yes."

Another elaborate puff. "Very well. But I would prefer that you sit first." When they acquiesced, he opened a panel on the opposite wall to review a large screen. He turned his back on them to turn on everything, taking longer than expected. Doh'Val thought he heard a breathless grunt. When the screen powered up, Mr. LeVanne turned back as he smoothed out his vest and fixed the top button of his shirt. "The Union has undergone a crisis of identity since the War. Its people are rebuilding what was hollowed out, and its government is showing interest in certain reforms.” A star chart of Cardassia appeared on the screen. “As none of you are experts in nation-building, you would not know that a government in shambles is fertile ground for its worst elements to flourish.”

Mr. LeVanne clipped off the lit end of his cigarette, stowed everything away and made the silver case disappear into the inside of his vest. “Mr. Seu.” His tone held genuine concern. “What you will hear is deeply disturbing. Please, allow me to finish speaking first.”

Minjaral found the warning unnecessary. “Mr. Head Investigator, you know so much about us, then you know what the Federation allowed under the Occupation.”

Doh’Val saw a shadow of offense on Mr. LeVanne’s features. “Very well.” The face of an old Cardassian appeared. He and Vudic looked to each other, realizing the truth together as the Head Investigator said, “Your father. Name, Corak Thrax. Alive and well-positioned in the current Cardassian government.”

Minjaral made no sound. He looked as though Mr. LeVanne had punched him so hard in the throat that he’d lost his voice.

“Would you like a moment, Mr. Seu?”

To Doh’Val, Minjaral was the type who grit his teeth and hardened himself to every setback or catastrophe. All of them had, at one point, fallen prey to their own emotions, but not Minjaral. He was unconquerable. To see him rise from the table, turn his back to all of them, and cower in the corner, helplessness overcame Doh’Val.

Vudic offered, “You may continue, sir.” But Mr. LeVanne quickly replied, “No. Give him time.”

Doh’Val focused on the picture so as not to stare at his patriarch. Having never seen any other Cardassians before, he felt unable to judge. Krax had more experience and quietly confirmed the similarity.

Eventually, Minjaral came back to join them, hastily drying his face. He said nothing but indicated Mr. LeVanne to continue.

“His son, Yaltar Thrax, is a member of their rebuilt intelligence service and they are.” He paused as another picture, a young Cardassian, appeared next to the first. “Well. They are quite close. A new service brings new ideas. What you see here is standard to our files. What you will see is collected through our own efforts.”

A picture of someone in a crowd. Krax yelped, “Profit and Lace! Minjal, it looks just like you!”

“While you were off-world, Yaltar traveled to Bajor and has been reported as missing; however, the Cardassians are not pursuing action. Shortly after his reported disappearance, this person you see here traveled to the Union space. Name, Bor Amoranis, claims he is a hybrid and has demanded recognition by his father and the Cardassian government. Thrax agreed. Unless Bor is traveling between Union space and Bajoran space, one is always with the other.” A few more pictures to emphasize the point. “We believe Bor Amoranis and Yaltar Thrax are the same person. Without any genetic information on Yaltar and only facial scans, we followed up every possibility which led us to your capture. I should mention that we, for reasons not yet understood, cannot find Bor. He disappeared around the time you came back to Bajor. That you were traveling to Union space raised further suspicions.”

In an unexpected move, Mr. LeVanne came around the table, laying a hand on Vudic’s shoulder as a means of asking him to move. Vudic immediately rose and backed away, an indescribable look on his face, leaving Doh’Val and Krax to move back as well. Sitting next to Minjaral who only stared ahead, Mr. LeVanne spoke. “I cannot know what you are feeling. Whatever it is, what I must tell you now will not ease your pain: I do not have the authority to detain them. I cannot pursue punishment against them.” Minjaral responded by making himself smaller.

“They are not my goal. But they know who worked for my government and who did terrible things in the name of the Federation. I would like your help.” Doh’Val watched the head investigator unbutton a cuff, presumably to roll up the sleeve, but he saw nothing else. He leaned closer. Then somehow, Mr. LeVanne became inaudible but kept murmuring things to Minjaral.

Krax paced and grunted to himself, fidgeting with his ears. Something stopped Krax from listening to those secret whispers.

Mr. LeVanne left the table and beckoned back. Minjaral was different. Quiet.

Vudic also had changed. Cold. Untrusting. “Mr. LeVanne, these forms you have provided contain very personal details. However, they do not offer a thorough explanation for what will be asked of us.”

“I would disagree, Mr. Talok-Son, if you read your forms to their end.”

“Our disagreement may reach a resolution at a later time. You have told us to behave as if we did not receive this knowledge. But this room is self-contained. It is logical for me to take what is detailed in the forms as the truth. The recent challenges of my personal life have come through neglect of obstacles; therefore, it is logical that I prepare to take on this new development right away.” He stood, picking up one of the tablets; his arm outstretched, he meant to hand it back to Mr. LeVanne. “Your information has proven valuable. I wish to return to my home and begin correcting this case of stolen identity.”

There was a warning in his stillness. “If you speak of this information, I cannot protect you.”

Vudic did not yield. “My experience of your protection has resembled detention. Being detained will not allow me an opportunity to correct this misdeed. You have also offered no incentive for us to cooperate. I cannot allow myself to be treated as an object.”

In the low light, Mr. LeVanne seemed taller and sinister. His gray eyes were so dark. Approaching their table, he leaned on his hands like a tiger preparing to pounce. The shadows made his face stony and hollow. “Mr. Talok-Son. Between the four of you, six different governments have taken a personal interest in your lives. One person, Mr. Talok-son, believes that this was done in error, and they are in this room.”

He arched his back further, creeping toward them. "Tell me your plan, Mr. Talok-Son. I find refreshing your appreciation of spontaneity.” All at once, the room seemed colder, and Doh’Val saw a flinching shiver through him. “But I do not recommend leaving this room without a course of action. What will you say when the Tal Shiar captures you?”

“That is not a certainty—” “If you walk away from me without signing these forms, it is. They will start with your family. Then your colleagues. Then anyone who knows you. And then, finally, you. Your parents will be tortured and broken and being that they are quite aged, I do not expect them to survive. It will be due to bad intelligence. And when they finally come for you, they will ensure that no one is left to protect you. Are you comfortable with that?”

Vudic’s arm wavered.

Mr. LeVanne did not.

Vudic’s hand, and his gaze, dropped.“I lack the knowledge to verify your statements.”

“You have three options: One, the four of you leave and never speak to each other. Travel rarely, hide. Perhaps you can live quiet lives, even enjoyable ones. It seems when the four of you are together, there is strife and misery.

“Two, you may leave, band together and do—well, I do not know. I cannot imagine what it would be. Find a way to clear your names. I would be surprised if you made it to the next salvage station without dying in a ship fire. The governments deeply interested in all of you are interplanetary, old, and powerful.

“Or, three. You sign your forms.” He left the table to tap a few things on the large screen. “Truthfully, I only _need_ Mr. Seu, and even that need is questionable. As I said, the consensus among my people is that one of you is a spy, but no one can decide who is and who is not. I could pursue my goals even if all of you disappeared. But, that would make my work more challenging, and I am not fond of that.” At the entrance he stopped. The doors slid open, dumping the harsh white light of the hallway into the room. “Understand: all of you are dancing along the event horizon of personal catastrophe. Whatever horrible events have befallen you—and yes, I do include you in this, Mr. Seu—none of it will compare the suffering you will face when entangled in the affairs of government. I will return after one hour, and I strongly advise that you make your decision during this time.

“Whatever question you may have, I am its answer.” The doors closed behind him. The screen went white with some script none of them understood, then went to some brightly-lit chamber where some sort of High Council would convene. There were people but Doh’Val had already turned his attention back to his friends.

Vudic kept on his feet. “It is wise that we make our decision as a group as we are all affected.” He paused. “This prohibition to cut all contact with each other is troubling.” Much to Doh’Val’s chagrin, he couldn’t catch the gaze of those blue eyes.

Minjaral reached for his tablet. “I must read this.”

“Then our plan shall be to read in full and leave together. We can take refuge with my family on Homeworld.”

“No.” In the shadows, his scar looked as if a black cloak hid part of his face. “I am doing as he asks.”

“I do not think it is wise to trust this investigator.”

Krax groaned. “I can’t believe I am saying this, but I agree with you, Vudic. Aside from finding a way to disable my own translator, I kept hearing...well, something. I heard a heartbeat but a lot of static and...actually, it was like nothing I had ever heard from a living thing. I already saw him block telepaths, and now this? Is he human? Is he even alive?”

“The investigator is a shapeless void, nothingness. I choose to believe that he is not alive.”

Krax squinted. “Why’s that?”

“Because the alternative is that he is a living thing, and a creature which can become a shapeless void should be avoided at all costs.”

Minjaral scrolled through the forms. “I do not care.”

Doh’Val picked up his own tablet. He needed to read everything carefully before he signed as well. He couldn’t look at Vudic who asked, “Do you intend to do the same?”

He kept his eyes on the tablet. “I am honor-bound to obey my patriarch.” He would go where Minjaral goes. He should have gone with him to Bajor instead of back to his father’s family on Earth. Perhaps they could have avoided so much….

“Do you trust the investigator?”

Minjaral answered for him, mercifully. “I do not believe it matters, Vudic.” A deep breath. “He says he found my father. It….” A harsh cough. “During the Occupation, births like mine listed our father as ‘Sar Kka.’ For their amusement: it means ‘Offworlder’ in their language. I...I cannot ignore what he has said. Even if it, in the end, was a lie.”

Krax stretched and yawned. “Well! I agree with you, Vudic, Old Beetle. I will miss you, Minjal, but I can’t sign my life away like that.”

A voice from the screen. “ _The Federation Council has convened and is in session!”_

Doh’Val looked up to see someone—Mr. LeVanne, looking a little younger and a little less self-assured—at a lectern in the round facing a sea of Council faces while an assistant adjusted a table next to him. He and the assistant traded unheard pleasantries. He even smiled at the assistant, clearly thanking them. This was not the man who left the room moments ago.

The beginnings of a Council meeting. Krax gasped, “I remember this! Not this exactly, but I’ve seen this! I know this man!”

Doh’Val couldn’t speak because only curses would have come. That little shit! He knew the entire time and didn’t realize it until now? Vudic coolly asked, “What do you mean?”

“The bar where I used to work. We were bored and a customer asked us to put the broadcast on a screen. Best idea anyone had because the place was flooded during the entire thing. It lasted days! Full work days! Sometimes I would stay after my shift just to talk about it. I don’t remember why we didn’t do it every year….”

Vudic pressed, “Tell us what you remember.”

“I only got the contours of the whole thing—just that this investigation was part of why the Federation hadn’t broken into civil war, but I don’t understand why they would make a broadcast about that! Why would you tell your neighbors that you were so vulnerable?”

Doh’Val had turned back to the screen, momentarily ignoring their conversation. “... _It is true, Councilor, that Section 31 was illegally dissolved without the consent of the Council, but this was decided for the safety of the Federation and as a gesture of goodwill to our allies. Section 31 committed heinous crimes in the name of our citizens. Starfleet Intelligence accepted this decision. As the Council is aware, I was appointed to seek out the remaining members….”_

Krax gulped. “Hand me that tablet. Yes! Hand it over! I am signing.”

Vudic stood alone. “You are acting on emotion.”

“I am. It is fear.” The three of them traded looks among each other. “You may be right not to trust him. But this is not some clerk in an embassy or a space station constable. Look at him. He hunts spies.”

Doh’Val met Vudic’s gaze for the first time since this sudden turn. His eyes betrayed everything: _We can go away together_ , they seemed to say. It’s what Doh’Val wanted them to say. Vudic could say it. One word, and Doh’Val would have cast away everything for those oceanic eyes.

But he wouldn’t. It was his people’s way to never speak these things. “Doh’Val. Do you trust this person?”

“I trust Minjaral.”

And then, the hollow, raw question. “Do none of you trust me?”

The words came from Doh’Val’s lips before he could stop them. “Vudic, I trust you with my life. I always have. I always will.”

“But not my judgment.”

Minjaral stood up holding the one remaining tablet with Vudic’s forms. “Truthfully...yes, Vudic. I do not trust your judgment. Not now.” He outstretched his arm, waiting. “But, I also know what you sacrificed to help me. So, please. Come with us, and I promise, I make certain that your sacrifice was not in vain.”

It took many tense moments, but eventually, Vudic took the tablet from Minjaral’s hand.


	2. What "They" Say

Kujvak, Son of Rorg, House Durn, Novice of the Imperial Vanguard, awake in the middle of the night and fatigued from a badly needed romantic romp with his wife. A colleague had roused him from his bed with an urgent matter. He must report to his post without delay.

His friend had disappeared six months ago. Kujvak told no one of a suspicion: he had gone to his father’s family on Earth. No matter how many times he invited over Doh’Val to reminisce about the past and divulge minutiae of his current affairs, Vekla gave Kujvak a sour look when she thought their guest wasn’t looking. She let Doh’Val believe it was jealousy; she noticed the misguided way he flattered over her husband, forever still in love in his own way. But the husband and wife shared secrets too. Whenever they prepared for bed, she made the same request: tell him the truth. Doh’Val deserves to know. In his heart, Kujvak knew he was too cowardly to do it. Vekla knew too.

Kujvak watched the stars as he rode the open-air charter to his post in the heart of town. Hearing of Doh’Val’s disappearance gave him relief. Stabbing the Vulcan confirmed the secret pining he tried to stamp out, and not even Kujvak’s cowardice could restrain the desire to protect his ex-lover’s heart.

The Vulcan had fallen into disgrace by means the Vanguard had not yet discerned, but damaging details about his personal life became shockingly easy to obtain through gossip from a species which valued logic and eschewed pettiness. The Vulcan was regarded as a deviant for lacking a spouse at this point in his life; Kujvak did not understand right away until a superior explained that Vulcans without spouses—particularly artists—would attend sizable gatherings on occasion to “satisfy the needs of their biology.” Kujvak, again, had been right: Doh’Val loved someone who could never love him back. Not in the way he wanted.

The horned street lamps flickered as if containing flame. Straightening his uniform, he walked up to the building’s front door. He should try finding Doh’Val after his business here. He must be with his father’s family. Did he still have the codes for contacting them?

In the dim warm light, Novice H’ohk sat in their cubbyhole of an office with headphones on, intently listening to a recording and reviewing the translation on a tablet. An ugly young man with a beautiful smile and electric personality. The moment they caught each other’s eye, H’ohk stopped his work to hand his fellow novice a report. “L’Naan summoned us. We found him.” H’ohk pointed toward the shadowy door next to them. “She is waiting for you.” No time to read.

Into the office where light brightened to resemble a morning twilight. His superior, a compact woman, worked at a desk piled with all manner of things. She wore only the under clothes of her uniform with a small blanket over her shoulder for modesty. “My children were quite fussy before I arrived,” she commented to the unasked question.

Kujvak handed over the report. She thanked him with a nod. “Ah yes, the human’s son.”

 _He is so much more than that_. Kujvak remained silent. He must wait until addressed.

The sounds of the night outside her window. A noise of incredulity. “Would you say that you intimately know Doh’Val, Son of Carl?”

She meant no offense. “Yes, Mentor.”

“Do you believe his parents’ claim that the off-worlders tricked their son into throwing away his honor and livelihood?”

“No, Mentor.” Carl and Tavana told him the truth as soon as Doh’Val left; they believed he was the only person outside the family who could keep the truth. It was sickening how much they trusted him.

“I agree. House Nakarmi received communication originating from deep in Federation space, beyond Human Homeworld, no effort to encrypt the transmission. Doh’Val, Son of Carl, House Seu. His patriarch, and the other two. All traveling under the protection of--” She chewed her lip “--The Federation’s Hunter.”

“The Hunter.” He searched his memory. “Ni’qo’la L’Van.” Human names did not agree with his tongue. “Our strong treaty with the Federation should allow us to retrieve one of our own citizens without incident, Mentor.”

“No, Novice. The Hunter L’Van has made his claim.” She stared at the report, deep concentration lining her brow and forehead ridges. “But it means we were right to follow them. The Hunter does not trifle.”

Setting down the report, L’Naan rested her elbows on the desk. “They say he can enter and exit any room without a sound. No sensors can detect him. He passes as morning mist passes through your fingers.” Her sharp eyes looked up at Kujvak. “And there is a smell that lingers. Smoke from a burning forest. Like....the smell of civilians at war.”

“Mentor,” he ventured. “Who is ‘they’?”

She leaned back in her chair. A weary sigh. “Among others, the Cardassians.”

++++++

The city shimmered in the afternoon light below the sweeping window of Ossa’s home, high in one of the few residential buildings at the heart of the capitol to survive Cardassia’s defeat. For a moment, she had time to herself to indulge her first passion: video. There wasn’t time these days for telling stories; she must settle for experiments with light, shadow, and form. The first time in months she had the time required to create _art_ , the painstaking process of framing the camera’s sight or scattering shadows and reviewing every frame to ensure perfection. Nothing worth doing was worth doing in half-measures.

Alone in her home meant time for dropping pretense. A chance to do something _very_ risque: self-portraits. No cosmetics. No styling her hair. Her vulnerable, extortable self.

A musical chime from her home computer. A visitor. Her dinner order? The cook would not be starting at this time of day. She answered the chime. Voice only. “Speak.”

The voice of her assistant. “Huntmaster Jondad, you instructed me to contact you the moment we received new information.”

No rest. She tapped another button allowing the assistant to enter her home. The assistant shielded her eyes as soon as she came in. “My apologies, Huntmaster,” she offered demurely, “this information must be delivered by hand. I was instructed to create records of this meeting.”

No rest. Ossa walked across the spacious receiving room to pick up her robe, the ends of her hair licking at her calves. Her assistant noticed the equipment. “Is video your pastime, Huntmaster?” Like many in that generation, her assistant picked up the habit of starting conversations out of curiosity rather than to acquire secrets or leverage. “I hope you will share your work.” Younger Cardassians also looked to every stranger and acquaintance to fill the crater left in childhood by the utter evisceration of their families, hungry for some distorted relationship mixing together notions of friendship and authority and constant reassurance of their own worth.

“Speak what you must deliver,” directed Ossa, turning her back to her assistant. Young Cardassians were slow to understand this as a sign of trust and not a gesture of rejection, a lesson her assistant only recently learned.

A few squeaks of hesitation. Too soft. “The hybrid from Bajor, Minjaral Seu, was due to arrive within our borders already.” She faltered. “His residence burned shortly after contacting our government to request permission. Once in our borders, we intend to detain him for genetic testing and questioning. He would prove quite useful.”

“I know this from a report. Get to what you must deliver.”

“The request was withdrawn. The Federation’s Huntmaster, Nicola Lo-Van, contacted our Office of Passage on behalf of Minjaral Seu. We are now certain of the hybrid’s utility. Huntmaster Lo-Van must have him in custody and intends to use him.”

Ossa felt what the younger Cardassians too freely spoke aloud: they were all children playing at government, waiting for their parents to come home and tell them what to do. Picture the notes from Father. Remember what he wrote down. Remember the gaps. Exquisite record-keeping was forever incomplete without the person who created them. “The Federation’s huntmaster is making a request: do not capture the hybrid under his protection, and he will not interfere in our affairs. He means it as a show of respect.”

Ossa gazed out the picturesque window. “He respects our strength. And we must respect his.” She shared her late father’s belief: The Federation’s huntmaster must be a traitorous Cardassian. There was no other explanation.

“Huntmaster Jondad, if I may. I understand him to be human, a fragile race. What strength could he possess?”

Ossa could easily recite her father’s notes. “Nicola Lo Van resists mind-melds. If you are in a room with him, you will know he is present only when he allows you to know.” Yes, her assistant was trustworthy enough to tell. “Our most important evidence of him was smuggled to us during the war. Seconds from a video. Huntmaster Lo Van is given electroshocks, spits blood in the face of his handlers. We know that this is Federation property. This was done by the Federation and there is only one explanation: Nicola Lo Van asked.”

“Shall I retrieve more information?”

“Yes.”

“And what of Legate Thrax, Huntmaster? He asked to be contacted when the status of the hybrid changed.”

“No, no. Tell him nothing.” She neither trusted nor respected Legate Thrax who spent far too much time and energy meddling in her affairs. “If he makes demands, send him to me.” Ossa looked at her camera. No rest. No time. Ten years. Her father would never come home. “Remind my subordinates and every member of the Obsidian Order to never offer him a bribe. The Ferengi keep failing to learn this.”

++++++

The moment Qol stepped into the broker’s windowless office at the Interplanetary Data and Information Exchange, his new associate did not supplicate but instead grinned and pushed a drink into his hand. “Good to meet you, finally! The moment I heard the Commerce Authority was sending you, I learned everything I could and hah! Your bribes! I mean, there are bribes, but what you do is art.” Qol would accept the flattery in lieu of crawling on one’s knees.

“Barbo, I take it. I may have reviewed your taxes once.” Qol said this to everyone in their first meeting to test them. Liquidators crow about their exploits, but they’d be nothing without the forensic accountants like him.

“Hah! I hope so! Can I just say. I have renewed my marriage contract now five times, I’m not the type for any funny business, but when I learned about the way you bribe--ah! Makes my lobes tingle.” Barbo giddily added, “We will never have to work again if we can do this assignment right.” Qol rolled his eyes as he sipped, letting Barbo chatter on. “Right, now, we cannot waste any time. I need to explain. You have the files, right?”

Qol pointed to the tablet on the desk as he strolled about the office. “The decor. Your wife’s work?”

Barbo was frantically clearing a space on his desk. “What? Oh, yes! In a way. A compromise. Well, she went and got herself a little job doing interior design and then insisted on making this place her first project. I tell her I like it because it keeps her happy.” Under his breath, he added, “I wish she were home more.”

“I’ve seen worse.” He couldn’t remember when, but he must have somewhere. “Let’s be clear, Barbo. I have a very specific way of working and coming halfway across the planet to stand here is not helping. There is no doubt: Krax, Son of Rhoon is the same as Krax, Son of Umar and Rhoon, Son of Kan and Umar, Son of Rhoon. The key is learning who he really is.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “If he is a he at all.” Females loved fraud.

“Then you will be thrilled by this assignment. Your man Krax got snatched up by the Federation.” He couldn’t grin wider if he wanted. “Their Liquidator Nikola La Vin.”

“The Federation does not have liquidators.”

“He’s like one. I can’t explain it, but he is. Puts the primal fear in people.” Barbo lowered his voice, giggling as he spoke, “This guy? I hear he can sneak up on telepaths. A Hoo-mon! You know, we may even meet him.” Then without warning, he grew solemn. “But no bribes. Never bribe him. Every time he comes to our capital, someone bribes him. He takes the money and gives it to a subordinate to teach them a lesson. Or worse, their wives.”

“I have no wife and no subordinates. What should stop me?”

“He will find a way to make you regret it. Besides, stay on his good side and we could find ourselves bathing in latinum! Look at these other three. Nobodies, right? You would think, eh? So why are the Romulans trying to court us? What do they know that we don't?"

"Let's say you are right. I still don't see what it has to do with me."

"Because." He licked his lips in anticipation. "He has visited a few times already and is due to visit again soon. Him, your man, and the three nobodies. Ask a few questions, take a few samples, poong, doong, boong, we sell it off for a profit you can't imagine!"

"I can imagine an awful lot."

"So can I, my friend." He took Qol by the elbow. "Now, this is very delicate, and we cannot delay. But we do this right, and not even the Romulans will know what hit them. I'm telling you: we are going to live like kings after this!" They sauntered out of the office. "But right now, we deserve a break. The hotel that Commerce sent you to, the silver one, right? Is it good? The beds: They do The Tuck, right? Because I have to say, I love The Tuck...."

++++++

Eventide meant a short respite from the grueling work of maintaining order, allowing Helun to express creativity through botany in the arboretum he had persuaded the Tal Shiar to build for research. All of it had a purpose of course: keeping alive the plants native to antagonist planets would yield vital information about conducting operations against them. But this was his public reason. In the privacy of his mind, thoughts turned to his true reason….

“Otacustes Helun.” The voice of his amanuensis. He could work while she talked. He deserved this time to think and plan.

“Report,” he answered, more interested in trimming the leaves of a very delicate plant.

“Inquisitor LeVanne has captured the disgraced Vulcan composer.”

Helun narrowly missed cutting his own finger off instead of a sickly leaf. “Continue.”

“We intercepted a correspondence bound for Federation space. It is written in a ciphered way, but the names are clear. I recommend we proceed quickly and capture the family--”

“No!” The word rang throughout the arboretum.

The amanuensis’ voice grew sharp. “The Inquisitor is one person and of a weak species. What do we gain in caution?”

He would stare a hole through her head if that’s what it took to reassert his authority. “Do not mistake patience for caution, Rett.” The Inquisitor took great pains to be known. He did everything except hang a gigantic lantern around his neck and bang a pot wherever he went, shouting about a great shame it would be if something happened to him. This radical transparency made Helun’s paranoia near intolerable in his weaker moments.

He pocketed the clippers. “I will join you shortly. Do not expect to go home until the morning.”

The amanuensis gave a small salute and disappeared. Helun lingered in the arboretum. His subordinate would wait as long as he wished.

A few years ago, Helun and three Romulan operatives had been unmasked while deep in Federation space and quickly detained on a near-derelict space station light years from anything resembling civilization. Knowing the Federation’s compulsion to coddle their prisoners before quickly sending them home, he ordered them to speak in signs. The Federation hadn’t even bothered to separate them.

The Inquisitor came, alone. A tightness came over Helun as if his own skin shrank away from the man’s presence. The Inquisitor offered information of great use to their government. It was not a gesture of collaboration. Their governments forged an agreement to share certain discoveries; the agreement worked well because both distrusted each other deeply. The Inquisitor’s offered intelligence was already prepared for dispatch to Helun’s government, but his unit could proclaim victory and cunning by obtaining the information first. The offer was part of an exchange: if Helun accepted the intelligence, the Inquisitor would accept gratitude in return. Helun’s or that of his government or something equivalent. He would let them decide.

Helun could not discern what he sensed. The Inquisitor was unreadable. Wherever he stood in the room, that piece of the room seemed to stop existing despite Helun’s eyes and other senses perceiving no change. Holding every fiber of his being in check, he rebuked the Inquisitor: the offer was a guileless trap.

The Inquisitor produced a small data stick and set it on the floor. If they believed this to be a trap, they may destroy the stick. Perhaps another member of their government would more readily offer their gratitude.

Helun picked up the stick.

He reported three deaths. All of his subordinates had perished with great honor, laying down their lives to retrieve the intelligence which he alone now delivered to the Tal Shiar.


	3. Letters From Under the Aegis of the Investigator

Mother,

We are safe. I am alive and well. I understand that this information was already communicated to you, but I also know that you would rather I write to you. I will not return home for a long time, possibly for the duration of my three-year censure. The Investigator, Nikolai LeVanne, insists that I cannot tell you where we are going. I can only tell you that we have been on a Federation ship for some time; I cannot specify anything more. I know my circumstances hurt you deeply. For this, I apologize. I grieve for your pain. Father will not speak it, but I know him. My choices have caused him great pain, and I grieve for his pain as well.

Nikolai LeVanne has taken the four of us as his wards. He demands to inspect any communications before dispatch to ensure I do not disclose details he wishes remain secret; he cannot read our languages, forcing us to translate our communications to him. His focus on my letters is more intense than the others because I now choose to write in the Punjabi-Vulcan writing system we invented when I was a child. If he is right that my letters are being intercepted, then I must do what I can to obscure their content. I have endeavored to write as if you alone will know my words. These are my private thoughts, and I will not be coerced out of free expression.

Investigator LeVanne is deeply illogical, not simply in his behavior but in his very existence. He tells me that he spoke with my mentor T’Pon, and she has accepted an arrangement whereby my aide to this investigation will satisfy the needs prescribed by the Society’s censure. When I inquire about how this arrangement was reached, he will not provide details and instead assures me that my reputation has not been ruined. In fact, he has given the same reassurance to Minjaral and Doh’Val and Krax, claiming that he contacted the appropriate people on our behalf. We are prevented from doing the same, his claim being that it is for our own safety. I am not under quarantine or detention, and yet traveling as his asset under the aegis of the Federation has provided me even less liberty than I was granted during my quarantine.

Aboard a ship which Investigator LeVanne has commandeered for his own use, I have consulted with other telepathic crewmembers who express similar concern regarding his presence. I must rely on hearing to know when he approaches as I cannot sense him; he knows this and appears to take pleasure in the way I am ill-prepared to meet him. I will not give into illogical behavior, but I find myself now constantly listening for his footfalls. I must reject the paranoia which life with him invites me to entertain.

Since leaving the space station, the four of us have taken to collaborating and composing together as we once did on Qo’Nos. Our quarters are the same ones granted to families. The crew is granted priority for the limited recreation facilities on the ship and we are choosing caution when interacting with them. Sharing the same space once again is not without difficulties. But if we are to survive our ordeal, we must relearn.

None of us have spoken at length with each other since our reunion. Many wounds were left unattended on Qo’noS. Addressing them has proved challenging, but your own words have guided me through this time: they are my friends—possibly my only friends, now—and the only logical action I can take is to resolve conflicts so as to strengthen these friendships.

Krax has become our ambassador to the crew for his ability to seek out cultural similarities and bridge them to create amiable rapport. He and I have discussed matters on which Nikolai LeVanne prevents me from detailing here, and I am finding an appreciation for the life he built from himself on the space station where we met him. Without the restraint of a patron, I am now experiencing the full breadth of his musical expertise and finding that he is almost equal to Minjaral in talent. His gift for blending together disparate musical styles has led to many fascinating compositions. When I am certain that Investigator LeVanne has retired for the evening, I find a desire to stand outside Krax’s room to listen while he works.

Minjaral speaks for us to Investigator LeVanne, the logical choice as we have observed that the investigator appears fond of him. The crew appears to give him the same regard, a welcomed departure from how I observed the people of Bajor treated him. In recounting his stories about life under Cardassian rule, I am learning more about his own life. He has even spoken obliquely about how he received the great scar on his face by describing the other scars he received as a child and the ways children like him were treated. These details, however, I cannot say. Investigator LeVanne does not care if I choose to write them. But they are private and painful to Minjaral, and I wish to respect my friend’s privacy. I am confident that one day, Mother, he will explain to you in his own words. I will not rob him of that opportunity.

Doh’Val acts as host to anyone who visits our quarters. We are a curiosity aboard the ship, and crewmembers will pay us social visits most evenings when their watch ends; the Investigator inquires about these visits, and I believe it is because he expects impropriety on our part. I would be offended if not for my behavior on the space station. His expectation is logical.

When we are alone, he often asks me about details on the time we shared on the space station. He tells me it is because the fever has created gaps in his memory. I sense that he wishes for a permanent arrangement, similar to the one between you and Father. Perhaps it is something I should have considered when we were first traveling; if I had proposed the arrangement, he would not have pursued Captain Kagga. You know my reasons for never choosing a spouse. Gatherings of similarly-minded people satisfy my needs. Our time together when I was in the grips of my illogic is time I will never forget. He is my friend and I owe him my life. However, I do not believe that such an arrangement is appropriate at this time. The four of us still must do much to earn each other’s trust, and I predict that sexual overtures among any of us would erode that trust. For the sake of our survival, I cannot entertain the possibility.

My own role to our quartet is administrative, and I am satisfied with the order I have imposed on our lives. Maintaining a regimented schedule has proven helpful as we are now learning more of each other’s languages, musical traditions, and composition idiosyncrasies. Had I been of the right mind, I could have done the same for us on the space station. It is my failing that my mind was consumed with chaos, and chaos is what dominated our lives at that time. My goal in telling you this is that you are soothed. Although I am far away, I am not alone.

I must confess this, Mother. I do not trust Nikolai LeVanne. However, Minjaral does. In the time that I have learned more about my friend, I find no flaw in his logic. In fact, I find no flaw in the logic of anyone who trusts him. And yet, I am illogical. There is something within me which recoils when he is near. He knows this, and he has asked that I do not provide more details.

I accept my illogic and express it brazenly to say this: I love you, Mother, and Father too. Every day, I feel your absence. When I close my eyes each night, I think of you both. I think of everyone on my two Homeworlds. I did not understand the comfort of my life until now. I am ill-prepared for what lies before me. I have no choice but to meet it without hesitation.

I shall continue to write every day and contact you as often as possible. I ask one thing of you: believe that I am alive until Nikolai LeVanne himself delivers my corpse to your door.

Live Long And Prosper,

Your Son

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

Uncle Leonard,

Please tell my parents that I am safe and I am alive. Tradition bars them from speaking to me. I am told the Investigator has spoken with you and explained why I will not return to Bagmati Pradesh. I have no choice but to trust that this is true. He permits me to write you this letter, but it will lack many details; our correspondences are inspected via algorithm before dispatch.

I have reservations about the Investigator, but I do not doubt the importance of his work. I am a son of the Empire. But I am also a child of Earth. I should have educated myself on the matters concerning my second Homeworld. This Section 31 is unfamiliar to me. They wrapped themselves in patriotism and claimed it was honorable to act with dishonor because all is fair in war. I cannot fathom the possibility that even my mother’s own people would believe in a war without rules.

Investigator LeVanne, so far as I know, has not once lied to us. He possesses a reptilian coolness like a crocodile which waits patiently, no matter the days, for its prey. He tells us facts that we find unpleasant. He will say “I cannot tell you” when we ask questions. He reminds us that we have no other option but to do as he says. He says that to be involved in Consortium work is to confront how little control anyone can assert over their own life. But, he does not lie. For this, I grudgingly consider him an honorable man.

Our ship is like a prison because we have fewer freedoms now that we did under scrutiny on the space station. As before, Minjaral bears this with the poise and strength I deeply envy. He and Investigator LeVanne have a special rapport, and I think the Investigator is fond of him the way one regards a favorite student. Krax shows less bravado than before. He speaks with the same fire but measures his words. He is afraid for his future. Vudic seems locked in an invisible battle with the Investigator; he will not admit his loathing because, as is well known, his people do not experience such emotions. The Investigator is invisible to telepaths like him. I am not allowed to know or explain why, only to state it as fact. I see the pleasure that the Investigator takes in not being noticed, and this is nothing to say of his insistence that Vudic translate his correspondences aloud before dispatch as he writes in a code which computers cannot efficiently decipher. I think he is punishing Vudic. I look away when I am present so Vudic will not notice my own pleasure at his expense.

I know you do not approve of Vudic. I understand. Already, I have my doubts. Months of chaste regard, and then to pursue me like the ancient hunter who chases the mountain pheasant for its colorful plumage! And then return to his chaste regard! What does he believe? That I am unworthy of him? Or is it what I have always seen—that he is waiting until the last possible moment to make a decision? That he is waiting until all other futures are closed to him. I envision my future, and I see him. But I cannot divine how he fits into my future, only that he and I are still connected in some way. I still cannot name what I feel for him. I can only speak its intensity, and it compares to nothing I have known before. The Investigator tells me that I have accomplished something nearly impossible: an intense and passionate relationship with a species who are renowned for their stoicism and logic. Qapla, I suppose.

I no longer understand where I belong. But, I think I belong with these people. We quarrel often, and sometimes I think Krax starts arguments out of boredom. And yet, I feel I have a place here. Everyone has, at last, apologized to me, and I have done the same. I find comfort in our conflicts, however petty those conflicts can be. I finally see the value in leaving Homeworld, and after this ordeal I will follow Minjaral across the stars as his student. I only wish that my revelation had not come with great loss.

I am well. We take our meals together in our quarters. Minjaral, with every meal, cuts up fruit for us and makes Dr. Jalal’s pickles. He has not mastered the recipe, but Vudic and I are teaching him.

With Love,

Doh’Val


End file.
